


He ain't heavy (5 Times Porthos carried Aramis, and one time Aramis tried to return the favor)

by kathierif_fic



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathierif_fic/pseuds/kathierif_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Porthos carried Aramis, and one time Aramis tried, and, in a way, failed, to return the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt at the kinkmeme, thank you for OP for the awesome, awesome prompt and a really gigantic, heartfelt thank you for everybody who commented over there.

“Porthos is by far the strongest man in the entire regiment!”

The outcry was loud enough to be heard even over the bustle of a busy tavern, and naturally, the boasting was followed by loud, boisterous laughter and the cheering of the soldiers sharing several tables at the center of the room.

“In fact, I would be willing to take any bet you gentlemen are willing to give on his strength!”

Aramis’ eyebrows rose, and he twisted in his seat to give the men behind him a curious glance. He had, of course, heard of Porthos, one of the newest recruits for the regiment. With his striking built, height, and the constantly grim expression on his face, the young man drew the glances of his fellow Musketeers like a magnet. However, he had never exchanged more than just the bare minimum of words to appear polite with the man when they passed each other in the garrison once, a few weeks back when Aramis had returned from an assignment and Porthos had stepped aside to let him and his weary horse pass on their way to the stables. Aramis hadn’t paid him much attention then, his focus on his mission and the yearning for a warm meal and a soft bed.

More cheering greeted the offer now, together with even louder cries of denial. The man in question, Aramis noted, was lounging against the far wall, arms crossed over his impressive chest and a scowl on his face, but his lips were twitching slightly under his beard, hidden from the sight of most of their fellow officers and the handful of Red Guards who had found their way to this place.

Porthos quite enjoyed the attention bestowed upon him, Aramis realized, and it piqued his curiosity somewhat. It was obvious that Porthos was by far more than the grumpy, gutter-born scoundrel who did his best to fade into the background and watch his surroundings, the obvious mask that he so far had preferred to present to the world and his fellow Musketeers, but that he had layers behind which he hid the real man.

It intrigued Aramis, and he found himself interested in revealing that true nature of the man.

“How do you propose that demonstration of his strength, then?” he found himself asking, drawn into the conversation almost despite himself. 

Porthos straightened at the sound of his voice, and Aramis gave him an amused look. He was well aware that he himself had a reputation too, especially around the newer members of the regiment, due to the fact that he was not much older than most of them, but had been a Musketeer so much longer. He had fought in, and survived, many battles, and his aim was legendary among his fellow soldiers.

“Porthos’ strength is great enough not only to wrestle every single man in this tavern to the ground, but to carry three grown men down the street,” the Musketeer who had started the conversation said with great confidence. “Would you be interested in a little wager, Aramis?”

Aramis tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Perhaps,” he allowed. Others quickly and loudly pitched in, and before long, a small heap of coins lay on the rough wooden table before them, and two of the strongest, heaviest Musketeers were balanced on Porthos’ shoulders and back, and Porthos was grinning widely while taking slow, towering steps toward Aramis.

Before he knew it, a strong arm was wrapped under his shoulders, his legs were swiped out from under him and he found himself cradled against a strong chest, and all that without spilling a single drop of the wine glass he was still holding in his hand.

He chuckled when Porthos slowly but surely made his way down the street, the mud splashing the man’s boots and coat-tails.

“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “a man could get used to this sort of transportation.”

Porthos only grunted and took another step. Sweat started to form on his brow and sliding down his temple in a fat drop, and Aramis twisted his head to gauge the distance to the end of the street.

“It is not that far anymore,” he pointed out encouragingly, despite the fact that Porthos knew this as well. It was an instinct, a gut feeling to do so, and Aramis had been a soldier for long enough to trust these. “Only a few more steps.”

Porthos grunted again, but his steps picked up speed while Aramis pretended to be unaffected by the outcome of the wager and the loss of his coin. He took a sip of his wine just as Porthos reached the end of the street and shook off the men clinging to his back like a dog shaking off water.

He was considerably gentler when putting Aramis back to his feet, sketching a bow and lifting his hand to his forehead, as if he was to take off the hat he wasn’t wearing. The grin on his lips was wider now, unmistakable, and Aramis returned it while dipping his head slightly.

“I believe we have not been properly introduced before,” he said. “I’m Aramis.”

Porthos’ eyebrows rose, but he gave his name before turning back toward the tavern and the winnings of the wager, and Aramis followed him without the slightest hint of hesitation.

It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.


	2. 2. Exhaustion

“I must insist that we take some rest, gentlemen, before one of us falls off of his horse.”

There was no accusation in Athos’ voice, Aramis thought numbly, just barely concealed worry. It stroke him as funny, that it was Athos, of the three of them, who was appealing to reason and trying to get the others, particularly Aramis, to agree to a much needed and well-deserved period of rest.

It was a delightful reversal of their usual roles, Aramis thought, while losing nothing of the tedium of actually having to stop. 

He was not sure his body knew how to stop anymore. 

Not after riding for three days straight, delivering important missives for the King of France.

Not after being chased, attacked and not allowed a single moment to take an undisturbed breath. They had slept in shifts, one of them always awake to keep guard over them and their precious assignment, and they all bore the signs of that now.

Athos’ skin was ashen, the lack of color going even beyond his usual pallor. Porthos barely kept his eyes open, trusting his horse instead to carry him faithfully to his journey's end.

Aramis’ entire body ached from the last combat they had been involved in, fought out right before the city gates of their destination. He had received a blow with the blunt end of a pistol to the back of his shoulder, and while it didn’t stop him from fulfilling his orders, the hit had been bad enough to turn his skin a garish blue and purple bruise.

And yet, it seemed as if his body had bypassed tiredness and pain and had arrived at a state of meditation, where the journey’s hardships didn’t seem heavy at all anymore. 

“We shall stop at the next inn,” Athos decided, taking Aramis’ silence as tacit agreement. Porthos groaned in relief, and Aramis simply followed his comrades to the closest establishment offering hot food and a straw mattress to stretch out on.

He managed to secure them a room to share and three bowls of thick soup with bread that was barely stale, by smiling at the hostess and offering her a few well-thought words and flatteries, and when both Athos and Porthos retreated for the night, he remained behind, his exhaustion almost forgotten in the presence of a fellow traveler, a young and beautiful widow.

It was late when he stumbled into the room and wormed his way onto the bed between his slumbering comrades, and while getting comfortable and pulling the threadbare blanket up to his shoulders, he had a moment of regret, knowing all too well that they would continue their travel back to Paris early the next morning.

When morning dawned, bright and early, he barely managed to pry his eyes open, and every step his horse took jarred his tired muscles to the point where he prayed for the miles to go by faster, and for the gates of Paris to appear before them behind the next bend in the road, knowing all too well that it would take them hours yet to return home.

Treville was already awaiting their return eagerly, and they reported to him as soon as they reached the garrison. By the time they were done, it was late afternoon, and Aramis was not the only to sigh in relief when they were dismissed.

They retreated to the closest tavern, sharing a quick meal and a bottle of wine, which seemed to have a reviving effect on both Athos and Porthos. 

Aramis, on the other hand, felt his body’s remaining strength wane, and by the time Porthos returned from a successful card game, Aramis’ limbs were heavy like lead and refused to obey his commands, to the point where he resigned himself to the distasteful fate of just sliding under the table and sleeping in the few stalks of dirty straw covering the ground.

“I do believe he’s had enough,” Athos murmured, his voice suddenly close to Aramis’ ear, causing him to jerk awake, one hand instinctively fumbling for the knife on his belt.

“I do agree,” Porthos rumbled. A warm, familiar hand closed around Aramis’ fingers, squeezing gently and dissuading him from grabbing the weapon after all. “I’ve got him.”

Athos mumbled his thanks, and then, Aramis was being lifted into strong arms as if he weighted no more than a young child. His head came to rest against the rough leather of Porthos’ doublet, and he tried to voice an undignified protest. To his dismay he found that he was too tired for even that.

Porthos pretended not to understand his mutterings, and Aramis had to admit to himself that he did not care about his reputation anymore, exhaustion numbing his senses and leaving him dozing while Porthos carried him home, his grip strong and unfaltering, as if Aramis was as precious a burden as the King’s letters had been.


	3. Drunkenness

The celebration, Aramis found, had been most excellent: the food was hot and plenty, the wine not too sour or watery and yet cheap, and the women wore relatively clean clothes and gave him coy looks whenever he walked by. 

It was, in one word, paradise on Earth, or as close to it as someone like him would likely get.

The only thing that was missing was the ever-soothing presence of his fellow Inseparables, the two men that had become more than brothers to him during the past years.

He didn’t know why exactly they weren’t here, to celebrate with him, or where they were. He hadn’t seen Athos all day long, and Porthos not since dinner, several hours ago.

Shrugging off his concern, he made his way through the masses, his cup never empty and his mood never bad. 

He only realized how much wine he had consumed when he missed a step and the entire world tilted dangerously to the other side, but he managed to right himself with a hand on a table, his laughter loud and boisterous. 

This was a good day. A day to celebrate. No worries would be able to touch him on this day. 

All of France was celebrating the King’s day of birth, and Aramis was no exception to that. He wove his way around the tables, joking with some fellow Musketeers and telling several women how beautiful they looked in their finest clothes.

There never was much intent behind his words, and he kept one eye trained on the entrance of the tavern, always hoping for Athos and Porthos to appear.

He didn’t know how much time passed. He also was not quite sure how much wine he had consumed, only that the world around him turned into a blur where all the cares he ever had slowly but certainly disappeared.

For a moment, he wondered if this was how Athos felt all the time, if this was why he drank, but then, the thought slipped away, like a fish in cold water, and he took another mouthful of wine.

He barely reacted when a heavy, warm arm was slung around his shoulders, just leaned into the familiar smell of leather and musk and let his eyes fall half-closed. He knew this smell, knew the feeling of this particular doublet under his cheek. He knew that he could fall asleep slumped against this strong arm and wake up, the fleur-de-lis imprinted in his cheek because there was no way Porthos would pull away when Aramis was depending on him to remain steady and steadfast. 

“I did not notice your arrival,” he said, his words slurred together and almost incomprehensible. “Nor did I know you were even planning on celebrating with us tonight.”

Porthos chuckled and easily righted him again after Aramis started to slide off of his shoulder and to the ground. 

“I am so happy to see you, my friend,” Aramis said and leaned into Porthos more heavily. Porthos was steady and warm, and he would not let Aramis fall. He smelled good and familiar, and Aramis nuzzled into Porthos’ throat without conscious decision to do so.

Porthos’ hand came up to rest against the back of Aramis’ neck for a moment, warm and strong and perfect, and Aramis hummed in his throat while his joints turned to water and he slumped against his friend’s body, trusting him again to hold him up.

“How much have you had to drink?” Porthos asked amusedly, but even if he had known the number of cups and glasses, he felt unable to answer, his mouth pressed against the open collar of Porthos’ shirt, his tongue and lips tasting the salty skin he found there.

“Easy,” Porthos murmured and slid his hand from the back of Aramis’ neck to his shoulder to haul him back into an upright position. “I’ve got you.”

“That you do,” Aramis agreed. “That you do.” He attempted to pat Porthos’ chest amicably, but the world tilted once again and he waved his hand through thin air, almost hitting a passing barmaid in the face with his wildly gesticulating hand.

Porthos gave a sound of alarm and grabbed his wrist, and Aramis, who was as surprised by his out-of-control limb as the poor barmaid, burst out in laughter.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Porthos decided once his friend had almost lost his hat to another wide-sweeping gesture.

“No!” Aramis’ refusal was automatic, just like the glance over his shoulder toward the barmaid.

“I must insist,” Porthos replied, and when Aramis made no move to follow him out of the tavern, he didn’t hesitate for long, grabbed him and swung him up into his arms. The hat fell off Aramis’ hair and rolled under one of the nearby benches, but a young woman bent down to retrieve it and placed it almost gently back on Aramis’ head, while giving him a look that was hard to decipher for Porthos.

He thanked her nonetheless and then carried Aramis out of the tavern, careful not to hit the man’s head on the wooden beams holding up the structure of the building. 

Carrying Aramis to his own lodgings would be a long trek across Paris, and Porthos didn’t need to consider his options for long before he turned his steps to his own home, his friend still resting calmly in his arms, humming a soft tune and letting his legs swing free, and offering no resistance when he was put in Porthos’ bed, his weapons and boots discarded, and Porthos’ bulk pressed warm and comfortably against his side.


	4. 4. Injury

It hurt.

Every single step of the horse, no matter how carefully he tried to balance it out, sent a jolt down his entire body, centering in his left upper thigh where the fabrics of his clothes had turned heavy and wet with slick blood.

The blade of the sword had pierced his coat where it lay across his thigh and his pants, a lucky hit by a desperate swordsman whose orders had been to stop the King’s messenger at any cost.

The cost had been his life, for a bullet from Aramis’ pistol had pierced his chest right above his heart seconds after the strike. Aramis had stopped barely long enough to wind his belt around his leg. He hadn’t even dismounted his horse to do it, well aware that he would most likely not succeed in getting back into the saddle.

The injury, he told himself firmly as he rode through the streets of Paris, was not deep, nor was it deadly. It was merely a distraction from his duty, a scratch, barely more than an annoyance.

It would not keep him from reaching his destination.

The deep blue fabric of the sash he usually wore under his belt had been sacrificed to slow the flow of blood and was wrapped tightly around the injured leg as well. The fabric had been saturated with blood, turning darker and darker as the miles flew under the horse Aramis was clutching to, strands of the beast’s mane stuck between his stiff and tired fingers.

He had to get to the Musketeer’s garrison, to Treville’s office, and the Captain could take over from there, bring the letters to the King, and Aramis could, finally, tend to his wound properly. 

Maybe get a bite to eat that wasn’t dry bread from his saddlebags.

The blood was rushing loudly in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the streets of Paris. His left foot slipped out of stirrup, dangling down and jarring his injury with every cobblestone the horse stepped on. Only determination and sheer desperation stopped him from sliding out of the saddle, his body tilting sharply to the right to stay on the horse.

“Aramis!”

The outcry pierced the dull rush in his ears and head, and he lifted his head with some difficulty. He didn’t even remember the point where he had dropped his head, his chin resting against his chest, his hat threatening to slide off, but apparently he had, for he hadn’t realized that he had arrived at the garrison, that the stable boy was reaching for the reigns of his horse, that he was surrounded by fellow Musketeers.

“Renegades,” he managed to gasp out, his pistol slipping out of his suddenly nerveless grip and clattering to the ground. He barely noticed it. “Bandits. Enemies of the King.”

A hand on his hip steadied him while Athos started to bark out orders. Aramis hadn’t even realized Athos had been among the Musketeers ringing his horse, but just knowing that Athos was here gave him courage and stopped him from struggling when hands reached for him, trying to drag him from his horse.

“The Captain,” he gasped as fingers that were gentler than they had any right to be loosened his fingers from the horse’s mane.

“On his way,” Athos said, his voice calm and in control. “Let go, Aramis.”

Aramis let go without even thinking about it and fell off the horse and into Porthos’ arms. A sound of pure agony was ripped from his throat, and darkness swam in front of his eyes for long moments while the voices around him grew alarmed and shrill for a moment.

“Step back!” the Captain bellowed, and Aramis swallowed heavily to push the nausea back. He had his orders, and he could not rest, could not allow himself to lose consciousness before the precious letters to the King were in the Captain’s hands.

“Captain,” he gasped, one hand covered in dried blood fumbling at his doublet, where he’d hidden the letters, close to his heart.

“Shh,” someone murmured, and deft fingers brushed against his chest, undoing laces and tugging at the documents. Aramis gave a sound of alarm, confused for a moment, but he soon recognized Athos’ hands and relaxed back into Porthos’ arms.

He felt the touch of the Captain’s hand on his shoulder, heard him receive the letters for the King from Athos, and let his head roll against Porthos’ chest.

“Easy,” Porthos’ voice rumbled, “We’ve got you.”

He started moving, and Aramis knew that he was safe, that he really could let go now.

The world turned dark and far away from him, and this time, he gladly surrendered to unconsciousness, knowing perfectly well that Porthos would take care of him now.


	5. 5. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part containing the Aramis/Porthos - if you want to read the fic as gen, skip this one :)

They burst through the door already twined around each other, Aramis’ arms slung around Porthos’ neck and his hat clutched in his hand, one of Porthos’ hands cupped possessively around his backside, one around Aramis’ shoulders. Their lips met in a furious clash of lips, teeth and tongue, and the coppery tang of blood filled the space between them.

A protesting groan greeted the touch of sharp teeth against the tender skin of Aramis’ bottom lip, and Porthos’ grip on the other man’s ass tightened, pulling them flush together while the touch of his mouth softened a fraction.

Aramis’ hat fell to the ground, forgotten and ignored as Porthos pushed him against the door, closing and locking it with one hand while the other one remained firmly on Aramis’ body. He didn’t even look at what he was doing, his eyes half-closed while they seamlessly moved from one kiss to the next, until both of them breathed heavily and Porthos broke the kiss to pant harshly against Aramis’ temple.

Aramis chuckled quietly before tipping his head up and brushing his mouth against Porthos’ jaw, his nimble fingers running over his broad chest and starting to unbutton his doublet and unlace the linen shirt Porthos wore underneath. As soon as his fingers had tugged enough of the material aside, he ducked down and applied his lips and tongue to the skin revealed.

Porthos grunted and started to return the favor, his hands tugging at Aramis’ belt and shirt. Weapons were unceremoniously hung onto hooks in the wall, articles of clothing dropped onto the clean swept floor.

Finally Aramis was standing in front of him dressed in only his braies, a feverish flush covering his face and with his hair in disarray. 

It was impossible for Porthos not to lean in and kiss him again. He just had to feel that quick tongue against his own, taste the spot behind Aramis’ teeth that otherwise remained hidden to him, and he couldn’t stop his hand from running through Aramis’ hair and cupping the back of his head, holding him still and pliant for Porthos’ ministrations.

He jumped a little when he felt Aramis’ fingers brushing against the front of his own braies, a teasingly soft touch not meant to incite him as much as it did. He groaned sharply, his hips seeking out contact with Aramis’ hands on their own volition, his hands sliding down Aramis’ graceful and strong back until he was cupping his ass with both hands. He used his grip to pull Aramis close again, and when that didn’t suffice, he lifted him up, ignoring the small sound of surprise and the sudden shift from Aramis’ hands from his hips to his shoulders, holding on with a strong grip that would surely leave bruises.

Aramis’ legs came up and wrapped around the small of Porthos’ back, and Porthos pressed his forehead against Aramis’ collarbone and just held him pressed against the wall for the length of several moments. He could feel Aramis’ heartbeat thunder through his skin and could feel his arousal pressed against his stomach.

His own was rubbing against Aramis, and Porthos captured his friend’s lips in another forceful kiss and turned to carry him toward his bed, where he could spread him out like a feast meant for kings.

Judging from the enthusiastic sounds pouring from Aramis’ mouth, he had no complaints about being manhandled like this, something Porthos decided to remember for later dates.

For now, they both lacked the patience for tender lovemaking, and after wrestling down their linens, they both were more than satisfied with the touch of skin on skin to come to completion.


	6. +1. Returning the favor, or at least the attempt to do so

“Porthos!” 

Aramis fell to his knees next to his friend, sliding through the mud with the force of his momentum and reaching out with both hands to turn his fallen comrade gently onto his back. Blood was pouring from a wound in his head, he had lost his hat in the fight and had dropped his sword when he’d landed on the ground, but he did not seem to notice, all his attention focused on Porthos and the deep, gaping wound in the meaty part of his thigh.

“Porthos,” he murmured again. One hand went to his friend’s neck, to feel for the beat of his pulse, the other clamped down on the wound, futilely trying to stench the flow of blood.

Porthos was still breathing, at least, and Aramis moved both hands down to his thigh. Porthos would require stitches, he could tell as much already, the wound deep, and although it was bleeding profusely, the bullet had not hit the big vein that, if hit, would have spelled Porthos’ doom.

Not even Aramis’ skill with needle and thread would have been able to help him in that case.

Forcefully, he pushed the thought aside and glanced over his shoulder. They were alone, surrounded by woods and the dead bodies of their assailants. Their horses had been scared away, and Athos and d’Artagnan hopefully would be back soon with reinforcements from the garrison.

In the meantime, he would use what he could to ensure their survival.

With that thought in mind, he set to work.

Thankfully, there was a merry little stream not more than fifty steps away. Aramis half dragged, half carried Porthos’ unmoving body there after wrapping the wound as well as he could. The act drained him of what little strength he had left, his head throbbing painfully and his breath rattling sharply in his lungs.

Numb fingers fumbled with his operating kit, thankfully worn on his body instead of stowed away in his saddle bags. He spread it out next to him and bent to the water, to clean his hands of mud and blood, before threading the needle and turning toward the task set out before him.

Porthos had not woken, and he didn’t even twitch while Aramis proceeded to sew him up, for which Aramis was secretly thankful. Porthos was a terrible patient, even more so than Athos and himself, and it would be close to impossible to operate on him when awake.

He sacrificed his own shirt and ripped it in strips, to bandage the wound once it was sewn, and then used what was left of it to clean his hands and face of blood again before shrugging back into his doublet.

And then, there was nothing left for him to do but wait for Porthos to wake up or for Athos and d’Artagnan to return.

The cold water had refreshed him and revived his spirits, and he moistened a piece of linen and carefully wiped Porthos’ face.

Slowly, he became aware of his own pains and aches, and with them came the awareness that he, himself, would not be able to bring Porthos and himself to safety should the need arise.

And the need would arise sooner or later, he noted with a glance up to the skies, where the sun was slowly but certainly getting closer to the horizon. They could not spend the night out here, in the woods, where unsavory people would take them for easy pickings, not with Porthos injured.

They needed to find shelter.

“Porthos,” he said quietly, his hand curving gently and carefully around the back of Porthos’ neck. “Porthos.”

For a long moment, only the sound of the birds in the trees around them answered him, and Aramis bowed his head and prayed for the strength to bring them to safety while his hands remained busy, wiping Porthos’ face with a wet cloth and checking his wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, and this knowledge alone was enough to let Aramis breathe a little easier.

Finally, after long hours, Porthos’ eyes began to move under his lids, and his limbs twitched slightly as he regained his consciousness.

“’ramis?” he slurred, lifting one hand and fumbling for Aramis.

“I’m here, Porthos,” he replied, catching Porthos’ hand and drawing it to his lips, to place a brief but heartfelt kiss to the scarred knuckles.

“What happened?” Porthos asked and shifted, pain making him hiss and grimace. “My leg?”

“Injured,” Aramis murmured. “But you will be fine.”

He assisted Porthos when he struggled to sit up, and slipped behind his broad back to keep him upright when Porthos’ seemed to sink back to the ground immediately.

“We need to find shelter,” Porthos said after a while. His voice was thin and breathless, and his face was ashy and drawn with pain.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed and shifted slightly, to wrap an arm around Porthos’ chest and draw him close to his own heart. “But I cannot carry you, my friend.” His lips curved into a grim smile against the back of Porthos’ neck. “I dragged you here, and it took all of my strength.”

Porthos nodded his understanding. “You should go without me, then,” he said, resigned to his fate, but before he had finished speaking, Aramis shook his head fiercely.

“I will not go without you,” he refused sharply. “Not one step!” 

Porthos did not reply for long minutes, but Aramis tightened his grip on him nonetheless.

“Still, the fact remains,” he said lightly. “We do need to find shelter for the night. I doubt Athos and d’Artagnan will return this night, and we are in no state to find our way back to Paris unassisted.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot carry you,” he continued then, “but if you lean on me, we should be able to get somewhere, at least.”

It was easier said than done. Porthos’ wound pained him to the point where he would have to rest all of his weight onto Aramis’ shoulders, his leg dragging uselessly under him, unable to hold his weight. He looked faint enough and stumbled often enough that the arm Aramis had wrapped around his waist was the only thing holding him upright and pulling him onwards.

After two hundred steps, Aramis began to murmur prayers under his breath.

After another one hundred, tears gathered in Porthos’ eyes and rolled down his cheeks unchecked as the pain shot through his leg like a flame.

Four hundred and seventy three steps later, Aramis fell silent, all of his strength focused on not letting Porthos fall. 

Another seventy-nine steps later, Porthos’ strength faltered and it was once again Aramis who carried all their weight while staggering onwards, Porthos’ body draped against his side and his head throbbing with every step and every breath he took.

They lost count after that, too focused on the task of staying on their feet, with Porthos growing weaker and weaker and Aramis taking more and more of his weight.

He could not carry his friend, but he could drag him, he thought grimly while the blood was rushing loudly in his ears. And drag him he would, until they found shelter or their fellow Musketeers.

This was how d’Artagnan spotted them, when the sun was barely visible over the horizon. They were holding each other up, Porthos’ arm slung around Aramis’ shoulders, Aramis’ hand tangled in Porthos’ belt, the wound in his leg still bleeding sluggishly through the makeshift bandages. Blood was also smeared into Aramis’ hair, and the open collar of his doublet, but he didn’t seem to realize.

Before their eyes, Porthos’ leg shifted under him with a sharp tremble, and while Aramis staggered under the sudden weight, he did not let his friend fall. Instead, he took all of his weight on his shoulders and dragged Porthos forwards, step for step, until Porthos brought his aching, trembling limbs back under his own control.

“Aramis! Porthos!” Athos called out, and the two of them came to a stumbling stop. Aramis’ eyes were dark and wide, a sharp contrast to his pale face. Porthos looked close to unconsciousness, his lips moving soundlessly.

Before their eyes, the two Musketeers slowly sank to the ground, Porthos crying out with pain when his leg bent.

 

It was probably a good thing they had found them when they had, Athos thought later, when they reached an inn and d’Artagnan started to clean their friends’ wounds. Aramis had looked close to collapsing under Porthos’ additional weight, his own wounds uncared for, even unacknowledged.

Still, he thought while wrapping fresh bandages around Porthos’ thigh, it was said that belief could move mountains, and there was no doubt that Aramis believed strongly enough in Porthos to drag him all the way back to Paris, if necessary, and Porthos’ belief in Aramis was equally as strong. 

It was very soothing and humbling, the knowledge that they had so much love and trust for each other, and even more so the fact that they held him, Athos, in equally high regard.

Aramis made a distressed sound in his throat when d’Artagnan wiped the crusted blood off of his head, but he quietened quickly and let Athos wrap bandages around his injuries as well.

“Rest now,” he murmured, one hand gripping Aramis’ hand and the other curling around Porthos’ shoulder. “You’ve done enough, let d’Artagnan and me carry the burden for a while.”

Porthos, who was half-asleep already, made an agreeing sound, and Aramis slowly, deliberately, closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax against him, trusting Athos to care for both of them and, if necessary, carry them to safety.

~End.


End file.
